


Wildcards

by Vertiga



Series: A Handful of Jokers [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fight Club - Freeform, First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Fake AH Crew, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsay and Michael are both successful underground fighters, and they meet for the first time in the ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

## Los Santos, 2010

‘We’ve got a hell of a final fight for you tonight, folks! Two apex predators far from home, battling for the heart of Los Santos! Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen! On my right, from the wild and frozen north, give it up for the Grizzly Bear!

There is a roar of appreciation, rebounding from the metal walls of the warehouse until it is like thunder caught in a tin can.

Lindsay just lets it ring in her ears, allowing the noise to fuel her adrenaline as she checks her light gloves one last time. Her opponent is climbing into the ring, summoned by his name, and she looks him over.

Short, solid, with tattoos on his muscled arms that she can’t make out at this distance. He’s wearing light fingerless gloves that look much like her own, and she can only hope he hasn’t lined his with ball bearings or glass. She’s come across such underhanded tactics before, and won, but those fights aren’t pleasant memories. 

His reddish hair is cut short, leaving less chance for handholds, but she can see the hint of a curl at his temples. There is a yellow-green fading bruise around his right eye, but it doesn’t seem fresh enough to give her an advantage.

His face is set, brows low, but he doesn’t look scornful of fighting a woman, or delighted by it. She’s just an opponent. Lindsay can handle that, though she’ll freely admit that beating the hell out of guys who are a little too happy to hurt a woman is one of her favourite pastimes.

He is wearing black shorts and a white tank top with a bear’s head printed on the front, a tiny theatrical touch that Lindsay can’t help but approve. 

Her own tank top is striped black and orange, and on nights when she feels like being a little silly, she wears full face paint. Like so many other things about her, it once drew derision from her opponents and the crowd, but as the wins stacked up, the criticism stopped.

‘Kick his ass, Lindsay,’ Kerry says, when the noise has died enough for her to hear him. He holds out the case with her mouth-guard and she takes it, slotting the red rubber over her top teeth and grinning ghoulishly at him.

‘And on my left, all the way from the tropical south, make some noise for the Burning Tiger!’

The crowd roars again, pressing close around the raised ring as Lindsay climbs the ropes. She raises her arms, acknowledging the crowd, and notes that her opponent had made no such salute.

_All business, okay then,_ she thinks.

The ringmaster beckons them close, and she squares up against the Bear, meeting his brown eyes without hesitation. 

‘You know the rules. No eye gouging, anything else goes. Win by knockout or submission,’ the grey-haired man tells them, then backs off.

‘On my mark!’ he shouts. ‘Three, two, one, fight!’

The Bear opens with a powerful punch, tight and controlled, and Lindsay barely blocks it. Her forearm feels numb with the impact, but it isn’t broken or bleeding. There’s nothing nasty hidden in his glove.

_Jesus, what an arm! Can’t let this be a punching fight,_ she thinks, already ducking down to get a hold around his waist. He gets another punch into the back of her skull, rattling her brain, but her foot is hooked around his ankle and she takes him to the floor with a crash. 

The breath whooshes out of him, but he isn’t dazed, immediately squirming and clawing to break her hold. Lindsay grapples with him, trying to land some blows on his face and pin his limbs, but a flurry of kicks to her kidneys force her to back off.

She rolls away and gets to her feet, letting him get up.

The Bear gets up fast, his motion explosive. His nose is bleeding from the blows to his face, possibly broken, and he’s starting to look angry.

Lindsay’s back is on fire, but she shakes herself and squares up again, watching for his next move.

He punches, one two three, quick, alternating jabs. Lindsay backs off, letting them whistle past, and when he follows up with a heel kick she’s ready.

She grabs his bare foot and hauls upwards, sending him staggering, and before he can get his balance she rugby tackles him. It’s not a finesse move, but she’s bigger than he is, and it’s a rare enough luxury in her fights that Lindsay isn’t going to waste it.

The Bear slams back against the padded corner post, and Lindsay keeps her arms wrapped around him, digging her fists into the soft spots on either side of his spine.

This close, she can smell him beginning to sweat, a light male musk that his deodorant can’t hide. She can feel his blood dripping on the back of her neck as he hunches over her, and he gets a hand on her tightly braided bun, trying to yank her away by the hair.

Lindsay ignores the tearing pull on her scalp, pounding punishing damage into his back, but when she hits a particularly sensitive spot he roars and lashes out wildly.

A flurry of knees and fists forces Lindsay to back off, gasping, and he bulls forward, his eyes alight with rage.

_Berserker, shit!_ Lindsay thinks, backing off around the ring. It makes sense – he’s too small to have got to this level of fight without something more than a good punch. There’s no way she can beat him by knockout; getting punched in the head is only going to make him angrier.

She keeps backing off, looking for an opportunity. She blocks several punishing punches, feeling her forearms bruise to the bone, and catches a nasty kick to the ribs.

She goes down and rolls away from a vicious stomp. Her ribs might be cracked; they hurt like hell. She can’t afford to let the fight stretch out. Too much damage will keep her down eventually.

He throws a wild haymaker as she’s getting back on her feet, too far away for a tighter punch, and she takes her chance.

Bulling forward, she hooks her foot around his ankle and gets behind him, shoving him forward. The Bear goes down on his front, and she falls with him, driving her knees into the backs of his thighs and laying all her weight over his back. She drives her elbows into his shoulders, digging deep into the nerves to paralyse his arms, and crosses her hands over the back of his head to pin it to the floor.

He lies under her, gasping and snarling, flailing his arms as far as they’ll go and trying to buck her off to the side, but Lindsay sets her feet out sideways, holding herself stable. His heels batter against her backside, but he doesn’t have enough leverage to land a decent kick. He isn’t going anywhere.

‘Yield, you son of a bitch,’ she snarls around her mouth-guard. ‘Don’t make me fucking break something!’

From this position, it would be all too easy to drag his arms backwards and break them in multiple places. She’s done it before, but she isn’t inclined to do it to the Bear unless she has to. This man has given her a good fight, and she’s got no particular drive to severely injure him.

‘Michael, for fuck’s sake, tap out!’ she hears, after he’s struggled fruitlessly for a couple of minutes.

Turning her head, she sees a skinny Hispanic man leaning through the ropes to get close enough to be heard over the crowd. He must be the Bear’s – Michael’s – second, as Kerry is hers.

‘You’ve got ten seconds to yield,’ Lindsay warns.

Michael spits blood on the floor and curses breathlessly.

Lindsay keeps her weight firmly on top of him, and moves one hand to grab his left middle finger. After having his nerves pinched for so long, there’s little danger of him managing to move his arm effectively in the short window she’s giving him. Still, he tries, flailing upwards, and Lindsay bends his finger back and breaks it without hesitation.

The popping snap is almost drowned out by Michael’s hoarse yell, and the crowd jeers.

Lindsay can hear voices close to the ring, individuals who bet on her gleefully urging her to break him bone by bone, while others who bet on Michael curse her name.

‘Michael, please!’ the Hispanic man shouts, his eyes wide and pleading, and Michael seems tired enough that his words get through. The berserk rage can’t last forever, and he’s got to be hurting.

‘I yield,’ Michael coughs out, spitting more blood onto the floor. His nose is bleeding profusely, and Lindsay’s pin doesn’t leave him much room to breathe.

‘Say it louder,’ Lindsay insists. She’s had people quietly yield and then attack her before. She has to make sure the ringmaster and the crowd hear him.

Michael snarls in pain and humiliation. ‘I yield!’ he shouts.

‘He yields! The Burning Tiger wins by submission!’ the ringmaster shouts, and only then does Lindsay loosen her hold. She moves off his back and stands, leaving her opponent to turn onto his side and pant for breath.

The ringmaster takes her hand and holds it aloft, shouting her victory to the crowd, and Lindsay lets the rush of euphoria wash through her, buying her a little more time before the pain of her own injuries really kicks in.

Kerry climbs into the ring with a towel and a bottle of water, and when she’s had her moment of glory, he helps her back to the walled-off space that serves as a dressing room in a place like this.

She glances back as she goes, and sees Michael sitting up, his second gently supporting him.

‘Okay, tell me what hurts,’ Kerry says, when they’re away from the crowd.

Lindsay spits out her mouth-guard and laughs. ‘What doesn’t?’ she says wryly.

‘Yeah, okay, dumb question,’ Kerry concedes, cracking a chemical ice pack. ‘What hurts most?’

‘Ribs, kidneys, forearms, back of my head, in that order,’ Lindsay says, touching her scalp gingerly. Her fingers come away spotted with blood and she curses. He’d actually managed to tear skin by pulling her hair. She doesn’t want to know how much of her hair is going to fall out when she undoes her braid.

Kerry fusses around her, getting ice-packs strapped over her ribs and the back of her head, and Lindsay just lets the post-fight high wash over her.

‘It was a good fight,’ she says after a while.

‘Yeah, and a good paycheck,’ Kerry agrees. ‘I’ll have to go and collect our bets, you made us both a lot of money tonight.’

When he’s satisfied with his first aid, he disappears to speak to the various bookkeepers. 

Lindsay gets up and makes her way out of the back door towards Kerry’s car. She’s leaning against it, huddled inside an oversized hoodie, when she sees someone approaching across the gloomy parking lot.

It’s the Hispanic guy from the ringside, Michael’s second, and Lindsay is instantly alert. She straightens up and her hand goes to the knife in the pocket of her hoodie. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s come after her outside the ring.

‘Hey, I’m Ray, nice to meet you. I’m not here to start something,’ he says, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace.

‘Then why are you here?’ Lindsay asks. ‘Shouldn’t you be with Michael?’

Ray makes a face. ‘He’s waiting in the car. I’m going to take him to get his finger x-rayed, but he wanted me to give you this first.’

He holds out a piece of paper, and Lindsay takes it, frowning. When she sees the digits written on it in thick black marker, she laughs.

‘His number, really?’ she says. ‘Does he want another round?’

‘Nah, he’s not too stupid to know when he’s beaten,’ Ray says, laughing. ‘He wants to see you for a drink or something, if you’re interested.’

Lindsay thinks of Michael’s wild brown eyes, his dauntless determination, the pleasantly masculine scent of his sweat, and the colourful tattoos she’d like to know more about. She wouldn’t mind getting to know him, or getting close to him with less violent goals in mind.

‘I’m not _not_ interested,’ she admits.

‘Cool, drop him a text sometime,’ Ray says. He turns to leave, then remembers something. ‘Oh, kind of a dumb question, but what’s your name? You know, when you’re not beating the shit out of people?’

‘Lindsay,’ she says, grinning.

‘Lindsay,’ Ray repeats, grinning back. ‘I’ll tell him the tiger has a name.’

He walks away, raising a hand in farewell as he goes, and Lindsay stuffs the paper into her pocket. It seems that the night might be a bigger win than she thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsay takes some time to nurse her wounds, then texts Michael for a date.

Lindsay leaves it two days before she texts Michael. The first day, she spends several hours in the giant bathtub in her apartment, soaking in steaming water to ease her aches and pains.

The pale skin over her ribs has blossomed into a spectacular patch of bruises, purple-red and angry, but Kerry assures her that her ribs probably aren’t cracked. 

Her arms are black with bruises from her wrists to her elbows, testament to Michael’s savage punches, and she can’t help but admire the colour despite how it makes her hiss and draw back whenever she bumps her arm against anything more solid than a pillow.

As usual, the pain after the fight is far worse than it was while adrenaline was still buoying her up, and it takes several hours in the bath, a handful of painkillers and two good nights of sleep before Lindsay feels human enough to even think of pursuing a date.

When she finally picks up the phone, she spends far too long pondering what to write before shaking her head and typing out a simple greeting.

>>Hi, it’s Lindsay. How’re you feeling?

The reply arrives within a minute, and Lindsay is oddly pleased to think of Michael responding so eagerly.

>>You beat the shit out of me, that’s how I’m feeling. You?

She imagines him scowling, nose all squashed and swollen, and laughs as she types a reply.

>>Pretty bruised. You punch like a truck. Want to get a drink and compare war wounds?

>>Seven tonight, Marcy’s on 3rd Street? Michael replies a minute later.

Lindsay knows the bar, a quiet place with a good selection of whiskey. It’s right in the middle of Fake AH territory, and she wonders if that’s a deliberate choice on Michael’s part. Still, even if it is, she’s got no issue with the crew.

>>See you there, she replies, then wonders what she ought to wear.

~

It’s still early, and the bar is quiet when Lindsay arrives. A man in a crumpled tuxedo is playing pool against a big, red-haired woman in a horrible Hawaiian shirt in the back corner, the irregular clack of pool balls audible over the quiet classic rock playing through hidden speakers all over the room.

Lindsay goes to the bar and orders a whiskey sour, taking the drink to one of the leather-lined booths along the opposite wall. She sits and soaks in the atmosphere, watching the man in the tux lose horribly at pool.

She hasn’t been waiting long before Michael arrives, shoulders hunched under a brown leather jacket. He’s scowling and both his eyes are bruised, but his face lightens considerably when he spots Lindsay.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here,’ he says, sliding into the booth across from her.

‘I said I would,’ Lindsay replies easily. ‘Everything okay? You looked pretty pissed when you came in.’

Michael huffs. ‘Yeah, just got some shit from a guy outside for looking like a raccoon,’ he says, gesturing at his face. His nose is swollen, and the bruising has efficiently blackened both of his eyes. ‘I’d have kicked his head in, but I’ve been warned before not to fight here, and I didn’t want to be late.’

‘Is your nose broken?’ Lindsay asks.

‘Nope, you’ll have to try harder,’ Michael says, with a wry grin. ‘You did break this, though.’ He holds up his left hand, and his middle finger is strapped tightly to his ring finger.

‘My bad?’ Lindsay says, without much guilt.

‘I didn’t tap out,’ Michael says.

The solitary waitress on shift stops by and he orders a Mexican beer and a shot of tequila.

‘Ah, sounds like home,’ Lindsay jokes.

‘Is that what the tropical south means, Mexico?’ Michael asks, looking skeptical.

‘Well, Texas, but I wouldn’t really call it tropical. Ringmaster’s dramatics,’ Lindsay says with a shrug. ‘I guess you’re not really from the frozen north, either.’

‘Hey, Jersey freezes all the time,’ Michael protests, and Lindsay laughs.

‘Here, I said we’d compare war wounds,’ she says, and rolls up the sleeves of her top to show him her forearms.

Michael whistles at the massive swathe of purple-black bruising. ‘Wow, I was starting to think you’d got off easy, but it looks like I did get some hits in.’

‘I’m just glad I blocked, else my face would probably be more of a mess than yours right now,’ Lindsay agrees, poking at the bruises and grimacing at the flash of pain. ‘You hit fucking hard, especially when you go all battle-ragey.’

Michael ducks his head. ‘I’ve been told I’ve got a temper,’ he says. ‘It’s got me into a lot of fights, and out of most of them. It’s how I ended up in the ring in the first place.’ 

Lindsay hums at that. It makes sense – a man with that kind of rage was bound to end up in jail or kicking heads in professionally.

His drinks arrive and he takes the shot in one smooth swallow, no dramatics, and chases it with a mouthful of beer.

‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘Not many women in the ring.’

‘I was a middle school bully, then I started taking jiu jitsu classes and realised it was way more fun to beat up people who tried to hit me back.’

‘Why didn’t you go into UFC or something respectable? You’re good enough.’

‘Too many rules,’ Lindsay says, smiling slightly at the casual compliment. ‘Too little time for freelancing outside the ring.’

Michael perks up at that. ‘You work for a crew?’ 

‘Not any crew specifically right now, but I’ve worked for several. A few muscle jobs, a little arson here and there,’ Lindsay says with a shrug.

‘Arson?’ Michael asks, eyebrows raised.

Lindsay laughs. ‘What, did you think the “burning” part of my fight name was just theatricality?’

Michael grins. ‘I’m more of a fan of things that go boom, but I like a good fire too.’

‘Where did your name come from?’ Lindsay asks. ‘I mean, the rage fits, but when I think of a bear, I usually think of someone, you know, hairier.’

Michael looks at the table, suddenly bashful.

‘You’ll laugh,’ he says.

‘I won’t!’ Lindsay says. ‘Pinky promise?’

Michael looks at her extended finger and snorts before linking it briefly with his own.

‘Fine. You ever heard of a video game called Banjo-Kazooie?’ he asks, speaking so quickly that she almost misses it.

‘Yeah, the one with the weird bird and the bear? Oh my god, you’re Banjo!’ Lindsay says, laughing.

‘I told you you’d laugh!’ Michael huffs.

‘I’m not laughing,’ Lindsay says, trying and failing to keep a straight face. ‘It’s just adorable, the scary fighter is a secret nerd. You must really like the games.’

‘Yeah,’ Michael admits. ‘And, hey, it’s a tough sounding name.’

‘Yeah, I guess the origin doesn’t matter if no one knows it. And I can’t really mock you, my name comes from really, really liking cats,’ Lindsay admits with a smile. ‘They called me the Alley Cat, when I first started out, but I did a stint fighting for Rooster Teeth a couple of years ago and got to pick a more impressive name.’

Michael looks warily around the bar, freezes when he spots the pair playing pool, then leans close. ‘Might not want to talk about working for Rooster Teeth in here,’ he warns in a low voice.

‘The Fake AH Crew wiped them out, I know,’ Lindsay says quietly. ‘I had no ties to them beyond a couple of exhibition fights, don’t worry.’

‘It wasn’t the Fake, it was Vagabond on his own, before he worked for them, but he’s pretty tight with Ramsey these days,’ Michael says, gesturing at the man in the tuxedo.

Lindsay looks over Michael’s shoulder at him, eyes going wide. He doesn’t look like the most powerful man in the city. ‘That’s Ramsey? You’re fucking kidding!’

‘Yeah, and the red-head is Pattillo, his second. This is a Fake AH Crew bar to the core,’ Michael warns.

‘I’ve got no problem with the Fake,’ Lindsay assures him. ‘Do you work for them? Is that why you wanted to meet here?’

Michael makes a face and tilts his hand from side to side. ‘More or less? I mean, I wouldn’t say we’re buddies, but it’s been a long time since I was muscle for anyone else. And I happen to like this bar. No one starts shit, they don’t stiff you on drinks, and their cheesesteak is fucking amazing.’

‘I’ll have to try it,’ Lindsay says, and Michael looks pleased.

‘Does that mean you’ll come here again?’ he asks.

‘Well, I meant I’ll try it tonight, I’m kind of hungry, but yeah, I like it here,’ Lindsay says, smiling at him. ‘I mean, the company’s pretty good.’

Michael flushes slightly, inspecting the peeling label on his beer, and Lindsay feels fondness curl in her chest.

_Fuck, he’s cute,_ she thinks. It shouldn’t be possible to feel fond of a man with two black eyes, who tried his best to knock her out two days earlier, but in fairness, she was trying her best to hurt him back.

_And he’s not being a dick about losing to a woman,_ she thinks. _It’s worth seeing where this goes, right?_

‘Tell you what, buy me a cheesesteak, and next time I’ll take you to one of my favourite places,’ she offers.

Michael’s face lights up. ‘Yeah, that sounds good,’ he agrees, and signals for the waitress.

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr anon asked for something about Lindsay and Michael's first meeting in a Fake AH setting.  
> This is technically part of my Handful of Jokers series, but it's set too early in the timeline for these characters to have met the rest of the Fake AH crew.


End file.
